


Paragons and Partialism

by PinkFringedFury



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Blackmail, Emotional Manipulation, Grinding, Lapfucking, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkFringedFury/pseuds/PinkFringedFury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why’d you pick him?” he asks.</p>
<p>Joshua raises an eyebrow and blinks, just once.</p>
<p>“I would have thought that was obvious,” he says, a parent indulging a questioning child. Hanekoma shrugs. Joshua’s lips twist into a knowing smile. “Oh, I see. That’s not what you’re asking me.”</p>
<p>The Composer picks up his coffee cup in both hands and raises it to his lips. His gaze is unreadable. He considers the question.</p>
<p>“Cocksucker’s lips, dear,” he answers. Hanekoma doesn’t flinch, but his stomach tightens like he’s been winded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paragons and Partialism

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of however many chapters it takes for me to get to a gross Josh/Neku/Mr. H threeway.

“Met your Proxy, today.”

Joshua pauses; an exaggerated display of expectation. The page of the magazine he’s pretending to read stirs, caught in the recycled breeze forced through the café by an ancient ceiling fan. It grinds ceaselessly, clicking with each revolution of the blades, impossible to ignore or to become accustomed to. It drives customers away, that endless sound, insidious and aggravating. It does not drive Joshua away. Nothing does.

The stillness hangs between them, familiar, welcome and threatening. Hanekoma doesn’t speak first, but he’s the first to move. He passes Joshua’s table, places a white china cup down with a rattling clink, just out of reach; he continues to walk as though the gesture comes naturally. Perhaps it does, these days. Owning a coffee place isn’t that bad. It has its charms. 

Joshua watches him make a circuit between tables, wiping them down, cleaning debris that isn’t there. Hanekoma can feel the Composer’s stare, can hear every minute movement, can smell the familiar bitterness of the steaming cup of House Blend lost amongst too much milk and too much sugar. Saccharine and revolting, what a waste. He keeps his back to Joshua and continues to ghost a damp rag across each of Wildkat’s tables, smearing them with a chemical glaze that dulls the metal tabletops. Joshua’s table shines in the low lights. 

When Joshua takes the saucer, the slow scrape of china over stainless steel makes Hanekoma’s teeth ache, deep into the root. The soft, wet sound of parting lips triggers an entirely different ache. Joshua sips, swallows, places the cup back in the saucer. He wipes the pad of his thumb across his lips to clean them. He finally turns the page of his magazine, smoothing it down. Then, he speaks.

“Oh?”

Hanekoma nods. He completes his patrol of the café and returns to the counter, wiping it down in lazy circles.

“Nearly snuffed his partner,” he says. Casual. Off-hand. “Got him to apologise to her, though. Eventually. Gave them a little something-something to make the bonding experience easier.”

Joshua chuckles. He returns his attention to his magazine, but Hanekoma knows better than to assume the Composer’s focus is elsewhere.

“I’d call that generous,” says Joshua, “but I assume it came with another dreary fatherly pep-talking.” 

Hanekoma snorts and shakes his head.

"You’re cruel, kid.”

“Really? I thought you had thicker skin than that, dear.”

Hanekoma turns and sets the damp rag on the counter, next to the bottle of store-brand cleaning product and the vintage cash register. No amount of scrubbing will lift the coffee rings ingrained into every surface. He likes it that way. 

“It was real cruel of you to take his memories for his entry fee.”

Joshua takes another sip of his latte.

“Is that what they took from him?” He eyes Hanekoma over the rim of his cup. “How convenient.”

The fan clicks overhead, a tick-tick-tick that adds a much needed stabilising staccato to the quiet. Hanekoma’s sandals clap against the linoleum tiles as he idles past the tables and heads for the door. Wildkat's heavy metal shutters block out the night, stretched from the left wall to the right. A shield. The simple wooden door at the far left of the café is his only exit. 

Beyond the boundaries of Wildkat, Shibuya dozes like a tranquilised beast. As Hanekoma twists the café's kitschy-yet-stylish sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’, the radiant heat of his palms mists against the window. He wants to exhale, to fog the glass and scrawl words and images and pictures through the vapour, but instead he turns to lean back against the door. The window chills his back through his shirt and waistcoat. 

“Why’d you pick him?” he asks.

Joshua raises an eyebrow and blinks, just once.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” he says, a parent indulging a questioning child. Hanekoma shrugs. Joshua’s lips twist into a knowing smile. “Oh, I see. That’s not what you’re asking me.”

The Composer picks up his coffee cup in both hands and raises it to his lips. His gaze is unreadable. He considers the question.

“Cocksucker’s lips, dear,” he answers. Hanekoma doesn’t flinch, but his stomach tightens like he’s been winded. 

Joshua pushes his chair out a few inches, just enough room to cross one leg over the other. He rests the cup and saucer on his knee and watches Hanekoma with an air of immense satisfaction.

“You noticed them too, then?” he asks. It’s a sweet question which poorly veils a dirty slur. The Producer shrugs, grins, rubs the back of his neck.

“Never took you for a mouth kind of guy,” he replies. 

Joshua isn’t, but he is. 

Joshua’s mouth is not quite a perfect cupid’s bow: his upper lip is just slightly too thin for the lower. It pulls back across his neat little teeth when he smiles too widely, and sits in a pretty pout when he’s lost in thought or displeased. Neku’s aren’t so pretty, but they’re darker, probably firmer. Warmer. Stronger. Hanekoma feels a delicate, inquisitive tugging at the edges of his mind and blocks it out. Joshua laughs, a sunrise over a field of corpses. 

“You’re no fun.”

Joshua puts his coffee cup and saucer back on the table. He stands and brushes off his trousers at the thigh and knee. He folds his arms loosely across his chest. His expression is thoughtful, almost pensive. Hanekoma makes no move to lean either forwards or back as the Composer examines him.

"Not like you used to be," he murmurs, and even after all this time the accusation still stings. 

Hanekoma pushes himself away from the door and idles towards the battered jukebox, next to the stairs which lead down to his office and the bathroom. Joshua doesn’t turn when Hanekoma passes him; he stares into some unseen distance and smiles.

“You know, I was never made fully clear on the circumstances of your ascension,” he says. Hanekoma reaches the jukebox. The keys and buttons are so faded that only force of habit remains to connect a light to its song. 

“I can hardly claim to know the structures and hierarchies of the angelic order,” says Joshua, twining a strand of hair around his index finger “but I’d heard suicide was a mortal sin.”

Hanekoma stops walking. He was almost at the staircase. He waits for Joshua to keep speaking, because if there is one thing he can rely on with total certainty, it's that Joshua insists on having the last word when he's in this mood. Typical.

“Tell me,” Joshua says. His voice is gentle. “Which one of them was it you died for?”

Hanekoma keeps perfectly still, a figure of calm ease cast into a lazy slouch, hands in his pockets. Joshua turns, slowly.

“I assume there were several. One wouldn’t have been enough.” A pause. The fan clicks. The dull, manufactured breeze stirs Joshua’s soft hair and the loose hem of Hanekoma’s shirt. The Composer gives a small sigh of disappointment – a sound that sends a shudder of anticipation down Hanekoma's spine. 

“Careless, dear,” he chides. “Did you fall in love with him?” Hanekoma’s shoulders tense, almost imperceptibly. Joshua hums. “Oh, I see. He fell in love with you.”

Joshua’s shoes – tailor made, expensive, white brogues – make almost no sound as he walks towards Hanekoma. He stops behind him, all of one pace away from connecting with the Producer's back. Heat radiates from Hanekoma – a welcome disparity of temperature. Joshua examines the loops and twists of thread in Hanekoma’s waistcoat, tracing the complex network of interconnecting fibres with his eyes.

“Won’t you sit down?”

It’s not a question. They both know that. Hanekoma turns in place, twisting on the balls of his feet, until he’s facing Joshua. He looks down, the Composer looks up, and in that moment Hanekoma makes his choice.

“Sure.”

He takes Joshua’s chair, because it is the only chair in Wildkat Joshua will sit in; perfectly central, by number and location, with a clear line of sight in all directions, yet veiled by the low lights of the café from outside gazes. The chair isn’t warm when he settles into it, but that’s no surprise. It's nothing new. Joshua moves his magazine to the far end of the table, closing it and smoothing out the cover, and leans forward to set the empty cup and its saucer next to the magazine. Once everything is to his liking, he faces Hanekoma and places his hands on Hanekoma’s shoulders. He rests them there so very delicately as he straddles his Producer’s lap, and neither of them are certain who the gesture is meant for. Hanekoma keeps his eyes trained on the Composer, even as he slides his own hands up Joshua’s sides, even as he rucks up the kid's loose shirt, even as he strokes his thumbs across the cold skin below. Joshua takes two brutal handfuls of Hanekoma's hair, crushing and flaking the congealed styling product he finds beneath his fingers. Hanekoma goes willingly when Joshua pulls ever so slightly, guiding him forwards. No guidance is needed. No guidance has ever been needed. 

His lips find the hollow of Joshua’s throat, tasting no pulse – only the dull vibrations of Joshua’s smug hum. He handles Joshua like a landmine; all slow, careful movements, attention to detail and the utmost focus. Joshua tuts.

“No, no, no,” he chides. “Don’t bore me with this.” He leans down, rolls his backside against Hanekoma’s crotch, feels the drag and press of a thick, swollen cock beneath poor quality fabric. He presses his lips to Hanekoma’s jaw, working a trail of cool, dry kisses up to his ear.

“I’ll take a fucking just like all your other boys, thank you.”

Hanekoma’s teeth catch on Joshua’s collarbone and scrape. The Composer leans into the bite with a blissful sigh, smiling at the wall, gazing at the curving shapes and angular blocks of an exclusive CAT mural. Hanekoma’s bite becomes a wet, firm sucking – halfway painful, but compensated for by the inquisitive roaming of broad hands across Joshua’s chest.

Hanekoma’s hands slip out of Joshua’s shirt, plucking at the buttons until it hangs fully open. He pushes the fabric off Joshua’s narrow shoulders and chases it down the Composer’s thin arms, down to where it pools at Joshua’s elbows. The kisses he lavishes on Joshua's bare chest turn from chaste and soft to urgent, open-mouthed, hungry things. He leaves wet trails across whatever flesh he finds, encouraged by pleased groans and the prickle of goosebumps against his lips. 

“Tease,” Joshua laughs. He drops his hands from Hanekoma’s hair and kneads at the Producer’s sloping shoulders. “Did you make them all beg for it? For shame. Now who’s cruel?”

“They weren’t all spoilt brats like you,” Hanekoma retorts with a playful tone. “They knew how to ask nicely.” 

Joshua giggles.

“What did they call you, during?” he asks. “Sir? Daddy?” He frowns as Hanekoma groans thickly and tugs him closer, bringing him further into his lap in a sharp tug of Joshua's hips. “Don’t tell me it was something so pedestrian as that. Ugh, you’re breaking my heart.”

Hanekoma’s searching hand finds Joshua’s crotch and squeezes, firm and forceful. His arm slackens to accommodate for a bucking of hips that doesn’t come. Joshua pouts and sighs, stroking the backs of his knuckles down Hanekoma’s stubbled cheek. 

“Sorry,” he drawls. He lifts his hips into the touch – a cheap performance of an organic reflex. "Do try to remember that I’m a little better at this than your usual tarts.”

"Most kids don't complain when they're getting worked over, you know,” Hanekoma smirks. "If you're wanting the real-deal experience, you gotta play along." 

“Silly me,” sighs Joshua. “I forgot, I’m supposed be a trembling mess of hormones, quite at your mercy – or however this one usually goes." He gives a deadpan, monotone moan. Hanekoma laughs under his breath, and scrapes his stubbled chin against Joshua's shoulder, prompting a critical tut from Joshua. "Honestly, I have to say I'm disappointed so far. It’s certainly not what I was expecting.” 

Hanekoma rolls his eyes and grinds the heel of his palm against the solid press of the Composer’s erection. There’s no heat to Joshua, not the way that Hanekoma wishes there was heat. Joshua doesn’t squirm and sweat and sob for even this much touch, not like the other boys, and of course he doesn’t; Joshua is a creature of will and desire, why would he ever experience a want he could not satisfy? It won't be anywhere near as satisfying, but then again - it never is. 

Memories burst behind his eyes each time he blinks. The boy with bleach blonde hair, who trembled and yelped at any touch to the sensitive skin around his homemade piercings. The boy with green eyes and a bruised jaw, who came looking for a fight and left with red cheeks (both upper and lower) and a much better attitude. The broad-shouldered boy who bit him hard enough to scar – a misshapen ring of punctures still tender on Hanekoma’s hip. The boy with protruding ribs who pushed back onto every thrust and shuddered for an hour and a half as a man twice his age stroked comforting circles across his back and told him he was safe, adored and wanted. A deep pang of longing twists like a shard of glass in Hanekoma’s chest. A painful twitch draws his balls close to his groin. 

“How sweet,” murmurs Joshua. “You held them after. How nice of you to offer basic courtesy to the little boys you fucked senseless. What a perfect gentleman.”

Hanekoma prickles with resentment, shaking his head to rid himself of Joshua’s prying. The numb prodding retreats from his thoughts as Joshua laughs and yanks Hanekoma’s hair. It forces the Producer’s head back, exposes his throat, leaves him open for Joshua’s wicked teeth to catch and snare on his skin. It’s hardly the bite it could be, all things considered, but it hurts like hell and his nerves blister with pain. He cries out, and that simple act of protest finally transforms an ugly performance into something better - a war of wills that both Producer and Composer know and need. He can’t fuck Joshua like the other boys, because he loved those boys for their uncertainty and their willingness and their adoration, and Joshua is an abomination. Joshua’s lips twist into a grin. 

“That’s a nasty thing to think,” he croons. His hands return to smoothing over Hanekoma’s cheeks and neck. “I’m hurt. You haven’t even kissed me, yet.”

Hanekoma attempts a witty retort, but elects to keep his silence; no more reminiscing, no more inadvertent sharing of memories. Only this – the mind games, the cruelty and a moment of vicious, urgent intimacy. It'll annoy Joshua more, that way. They don’t kiss. They will never kiss. It'd ruin everything.

They shed only the clothes that are necessary. Joshua’s shirt still hangs loose and limp around his elbows. One leg remains in his jeans, whilst the other leg clings bare around Hanekoma’s waist and the back of the chair in which he’s sitting. Hanekoma himself fumbles with his belt as Joshua peppers his Producer’s jaw with kisses, insatiable and demanding. He wants to shove his fingers into Joshua’s mouth, bring the boy to his knees and watch him suckle as he glides his skinny fingers over his slender cock. He wants to watch Joshua wince and pant as he's stroked into desperation from the inside. He traces the ridges of Joshua's spine, but Joshua bats away Hanekoma’s probing fingers as they slide between his cheeks.

“Spare us the formalities, dear,” he quips. Hanekoma knows that the Composer will accommodate him effortlessly – a fact that only serves to ruin the fun of the fantasy. He misses the pleasure and effort it takes to prepare his partners; to feel them pant against his shoulder and twitch around his fingers, fighting and relaxing, enduring the discomfort for the promise of something better. Of course Joshua would take even that much fun away from him. However, it gratifies Hanekoma immensely when he wraps an arm around Joshua’s waist and earns a coo of delight from the Composer as he shifts into position. 

“Finally,” says Joshua, “a little enthusiasm! And here I thought I’d have to do all the work again.”

Hanekoma ignores the comment, too focused on gripping the root of his erection and guiding it into Joshua's body. There’s no resistance to the breach – not because the kid's relaxed or comfortable, but simply because Joshua does not will there to be any. No need for playing it gentle, then. The blunt, sticky head of Hanekoma’s cock drives deep into Shibuya’s Composer, and pleasure seizes Hanekoma’s muscles as he rocks his hips and thrusts up into the slick tension that crushes around his shaft. However, it's once against the lack of heat that revolts him on a primal level; the sensation is that of fucking a sopping silicone toy, rather than some hot, sweaty, human body. Joshua hums with faux-sympathy.

“Oh, you poor thing,” he sighs, breathy and blissful as he bounces in Hanekoma’s lap. The wet, sucking sound of a thick dick in an over-lubed hole punctuates the melody of hitched breathing and the percussive beat of the damned ceiling fan. “Having to have sex with a God, instead of some broken little thing with Daddy issues and an overripe cherry just gagging to be popped.”

Hanekoma cuts him off with a sharp thrust, aimed up and deep. Joshua gasps like a boy and that makes it all so much better. He deliberately clenches hard around Hanekoma on the downstroke out of spite, pulling a sharp grunt from the Producer that tapers into a laugh. To catch Joshua off-guard isn’t what makes Hanekoma moan; it’s to force Joshua to enjoy – really, truly, genuinely enjoy – the constraints of his new, limited body. Joshua’s indignance is soon lost to a syrupy groan, and he abandons his displeasure in favour of closed eyes and an open mouth. Finally, finally, they stop talking and start fucking in earnest; tight, close and possessive. 

The chair creaks under the combined weight of Producer and Composer, scratching against the linoleum. The coffee cup rattles in its saucer whenever Joshua leans backwards, either to force Hanekoma to push deeper, or to brace back against the edge of the table. His skin colours – from an immaculate paleness to an inglorious, undignified shade of pastel pink. There is no heat, for all that there’s the flush of blood on display, but it’s enough. It’s more than Hanekoma could ask for, from this particular boy. He pants into the crook of Joshua’s neck and works the Composer’s twitching erection with a quick and rhythmic hand. When they're both into it, it's all just so much nicer, really. 

Joshua’s cock leaves a sticky kiss against Hanekoma's palm with each jerk of his fist and swipe of his thumb, and Hanekoma groans a wordless thanks to Joshua for pushing down with each thrust and driving him deep enough to brutalise Joshua's prostate. In return, the engorged head of Hanekoma’s erection is tortured by the bruising, obscene clench of Joshua’s muscles, denying him the right to pull out or away. Joshua does not sweat, but he gasps like he’s human and digs his fingernails into Hanekoma’s shoulders, even through the dual layers of his waistcoat and sweat-soaked shirt. It's as good as it gets and that's plenty enough for them both when they're this unbearably close.

Orgasm comes quickly, gracelessly. Joshua continues to snap his hips into Hanekoma’s hand and makes a noise somewhere between a static hiss and a reedy moan. Hanekoma doesn’t slow to milk Joshua’s orgasm, to abuse his prostate until the gland is swollen and traumatised, to drain Joshua of every drop until he comes dry and sobbing. Nor, he thinks, as he continues the steady pounding, does he want to. They both have other people for that sort of thing. Joshua has whoever he damn well pleases, and Hanekoma has his favourite Players. Hanekoma pictures somebody else. He calls to mind the sticky images of flushed cheeks, bare skin, blue eyes and dark lashes, a pair of perfect cocksucking lips - wet and flushed - and orange hair plastered to sweaty skin. A boy who will ask nicely, who will want to learn, who will beg to bounce in his lap and who will cling to him like a lifeline. Someone to need him and to be needed in return. Someone to talk to in soft, low murmurs in the dim afterglow. A weight across his chest. A boy in his arms. 

Joshua makes a disinterested noise when Hanekoma comes to that image, and Hanekoma genuinely couldn't give a rat's ass if the kid was eavesdropping on his thoughts, that time. Evidently feeling generous, Joshua gives his Producer time enough to ride out the aftershocks and doesn't bitch about the mess. He tucks a strand of blonde hair behind his ear as he sits up straight, hands splayed on Hanekoma’s chest.

“Better?” he asks, as if it was some noble and compassionate gesture. Perhaps it was. Hanekoma nods, rakes his own hair back from his forehead, laughs.

“Not bad, kid,” he grins. “I could get used to that kind of job incentive.”

Joshua rolls his eyes and yawns.

“If you’re going to keep saying that after we do this, I’ll find somebody better to bore me with terrible pillow talk. Help me up.”

It’s not that Joshua needs Hanekoma’s assistance to disengage – he’s perfectly able to lift himself up and to tug Hanekoma’s flagging erection out from his body. He’s perfectly capable of grabbing a tissue and cleaning himself up; he really doesn’t need Hanekoma to support his hips, or to drop to one knee, or to lick away the mess that drips down Joshua’s pale thighs. But Hanekoma does all these things with minimal complaint, and a sly grin when he licks over Joshua's hole and feels it flinch under his tongue. It’s all a reminder, of course, that a creature like Sanae Hanekoma has ultimately chosen to adhere to Joshua’s will. It suits them both well enough. For now. 

Joshua yawns as he rebuttons his damp shirt. He’s tousled and flushed, beautiful in the low light, this fuck-drunk heathen God and his damned puppeteer. There is a moment of silence between them as Hanekoma gets up off the floor and settles back into the chair. He leans back, legs spread, grinning at the ceiling. Joshua brushes out the creases in his jeans. It's good; really, really good.

“You’re going to fuck Neku,” says Joshua.

Hanekoma releases a long, slow breath through his nose. So much for that. Joshua flexes his fingers and tugs the collar of his shirt back into a pristine crease. 

“I want to watch.”

For the first time that evening, Hanekoma hesitates. He drops his head down, and looks at Joshua. Joshua looks back, all razorblade sweetness and steel command.

“Why?” says Hanekoma. His voice is controlled but uncertain. Joshua giggles, damn him.

“You really can't get it up quite the same way for me, can you?” he says. “I want to see you do it properly." He waves a hand dismissively at Hanekoma's expression. "There's no need for that look. I won’t interfere the first time. Or even the second. I promise.” He drifts to Hanekoma's side and reaches out to cup the Producer's face, staring down at him with a mixture of fondness and loathing. “I just want to see you make him cry for it.”

Hanekoma turns his head, and grazes his dry lips against Joshua’s palm. Joshua laughs, melodic and delighted.

“There's your incentive. Consider it a little bonus for all your hard work so far.”

“Closing up,” says Hanekoma, jerking his thumb towards the door. Joshua nods, the very picture of goodwill and amicability. 

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll see myself out.”

Hanekoma waves lazily and doesn’t watch the Composer go. He doesn’t look to the door when it clicks open, or when it clicks shut. He is alone in his café, with only the tick-tick-tick of the ancient ceiling fan that circulates a dull breeze, laced with a post-coital tang. 

Hanekoma lifts his hands to his face and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. There are six hundred and fifty two hours left of the Composer’s game, before Shibuya is reduced to ruins and fragments of empty data. Before Sanae Hanekoma will be forced to make one last decision or face the consequences of those he has already made.  
He licks his lips, but his mouth is too dry. He drops his hands from his eyes, waits for his vision to swim back into focus, and looks across the coffee shop. 

One last table to clean, before he can clean himself. 

Hanekoma forces himself to his feet and stretches his back, hands on his hips. He attempts to yawn, but cannot force the gesture. No sleep tonight, evidently. He pushes Joshua’s chair back in, slotting it beneath the metal table. The coffee cup rattles in its saucer. Hanekoma reaches for it, and finds it full. Cold, congealed and untouched. He laughs. He shakes his head. He lifts the cup and carries it to the counter, where a lush bonsai tree in a hideous jade pot takes up precious space. Joshua bought it for him, years ago - too many years to remember when. It was ugly then, and it's ugly now, and every time he leaves it in the street, it reappears. Usually, it looks all the more healthy for it. He dumps the contents of the cup into the soil. 

Six hundred and fifty one hours remain. There is work to be done. Hanekoma washes Joshua's cup, locks the door to Wildkat, and whistles tunelessly as he descends the stairs.


End file.
